


when the autumn moon is bright

by jenna221b



Series: Good Omens Prompts [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, One Word Prompts, POV Alternating, Racket's 13 days of Halloween, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: Aziraphale can just make out Crowley closing his eyes, his mouth trembling. His chest rises with erratic, uneven breaths.“Angel,” he whispers. The word splinters. “I’m… scared.”*Daily series of ficlets—some soft, some soft(ly spooky)—written for @racketghost’s ’13 days of Halloween’ prompts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840228
Comments: 188
Kudos: 181
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. Ghosts (1885)

> _Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst._ –Arthur Conan Doyle.

Two men are leaving each other love letters in the bookshop. Aziraphale never pries, of course, but to him it is as clear as day—whenever one of them opens the door, the wave of their love is overwhelming.

They are never in the shop together. They pass like ships in the night, opening different books each time, lingering on certain pages, sharing a smile no-one else can see. Aziraphale wonders what they’re saying to each other. _I’m thinking of you; wait for me; I’ll come back to you._

They must love each other so dearly, Aziraphale thinks, for it to be worth the risk.

Of course, there will never be any risk, not here. Aziraphale hopes they can sense it somehow, that this is a place of sanctuary. It’s getting harder to keep them safe elsewhere, too many streets to watch. But, he can control these walls, no danger darkening his door.

They are one of the very few he has ever sold books to, and he always ensures that they leave with a little more money than what they handed over.

The memory of St James’s is persistent. Every excruciatingly cruel word demands to be unearthed, over and over again. He is haunted by the thought that perhaps this is what he should have done for Crowley: used another’s voice, a coded message. There is always such a terrible gulf between the words he can say, and the words he means.

He remembers a night at Portland Place. He had forgot himself, enthused about Crowley to any soul who would listen until all at the club had known of ‘Fell’s sweetheart.’ It had been easy, then, to pretend he was just a human. Just in love.

Aziraphale has been feeling more like a human than an angel for far longer than he’d care to admit.

He knows now that he cannot… should never have been a part of life. He should guard it, protect it, and nothing more. He bestows blessings of freedom and security to all that seek out the shop. He tries to comfort himself, that even if it must be in the dark, they can speak their love, hold each other close.

When they are gone, he locks the door, and retreats—a spectre amongst the shelves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! <3 I'm so happy to be back doing prompt series, doing 2 of them throughout October! The summary quote is from a future ficlet in this series. Disclaimer that these will not probably be big on the Proper Scares department as I am a wimp when it comes to horror lol


	2. Bones (1601)

Crowley draws back with an exaggerated sniff. He hopes it does enough to disguise a wince.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” Aziraphale asks. His lips twitch like he knows he shouldn’t be smiling, but he can’t quite stop himself from doing so.

Crowley shakes out his hand, only just repressing a hiss of discomfort. He looks daggers at the insolent bastard being kicked out of the inn, now at least sporting a bloody nose for all their trouble.

“He spat at you,” Crowley points out reasonably.

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow. “Ah, yes, my delicate constitution. How ever will I recover?”

“Oi. That’s gratitude for—ah, _fuck_.”

Crowley cringes at the sound of shattered glass, his preventative miracle thrown out a moment too late. Stupid—he’d gone to pick up their drinks without thinking. The pain in his hand that he’d been doing his best to ignore surges, like a white-hot brand to the skin.

“Shit. Sorry, I’ll—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, never mind the glass, Crowley, come on.”

Aziraphale shepherds him to a seat at a table.

“Show me?”

“S’nothing,” Crowley protests weakly. A knot of mortification twists in his stomach. “Just a sprain, I reckon.”

Aziraphale sits down opposite him, not looking convinced in the slightest. “A sprain, _indeed_ ,” he says. He pats the centre of the table in expectation.

Crowley sighs, and slowly places his hand on the table.

Aziraphale somehow makes even the clicking of his tongue sound incredibly fond. “Oh, your _poor_ hand.” He says it so plaintively, so earnestly, that Crowley has half a mind to be jealous of his own hand.

And, then…

The thing is, Crowley has seen Aziraphale mend broken bones before. They both know touch isn’t needed. And yet, Aziraphale reaches out anyway. His warm palm gingerly cups around Crowley’s fingers.

“Honestly,” Aziraphale says softly. “Were you never taught proper form?”

Crowley shrugs, a little speechless at how _gentle_ Aziraphale is being, coaxing everything back into alignment with such delicate care that it hardly hurts at all.

“There we are,” Aziraphale murmurs. He glances up, catching Crowley’s eye with the loveliest smile, like he’s unaware that he’s doing it.

Crowley clears his throat. “Think I’ll live?”

“It was a close call.” Aziraphale’s smile falters, then. “It may still bruise, I’m afraid.”

Crowley shrugs again. “Worth it,” he says lightly. He knows a punch is nothing, that he would do far more to stop vile, vindictive words from being hurled Aziraphale’s way.

Aziraphale tuts. “Well, it shouldn’t be.” He still sounds a touch wry. After all, they can get away with saying the deeper things if they pass them off as jokes.

But, Aziraphale keeps his hand close, resting on the table for the whole night; their fingertips brushing in little intervals that could almost be inconsequential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about the hands <3


	3. Graveyard (1862)

Aziraphale knows they aren’t really watching him. And yet, as dusk falls, it’s horrifyingly easy to forget.

He shudders past sepulchres, tries to tear his gaze away, but… _there_ , are those blank, bronze eyes following him, just out of the corner of his eye? Has that angel’s head risen, the hand twitching oh so slightly, as it points towards Heaven?

He exhales. His breath clouds in front of his face, like wisps of smoke. After a habitual yet agonising delay, he allows himself to think it, at least: that Gabriel’s whole farce had been utterly insulting.

“Consecrated ground, right, Aziraphale?” he had boasted. He grinned, teeth glinting in the half-light. “No chance of the demon Crowley intercepting us here.”

 _He wouldn’t anyway_ , Aziraphale bit back. _And, besides, I have no idea of his movements._

(Not anymore).

He has had to bite his tongue rather a lot, this evening—like when Gabriel had dared to rid his shoes of dirt by scraping them against a gravestone; when he had conspicuously brightened any statue depicting him or Michael, but neglected everything else.

Aziraphale believes that, until tonight, he had never truly felt loathing. That is, until Gabriel had eyed the graves of poorer families with poorly concealed disdain, and something hard and cold settled in Aziraphale’s chest.

Stop. He gives himself a shake before hurrying on. It’s a dangerous thing, to dwell on such thoughts. Especially here. For a ghoulish moment, he imagines those statues breaking free from their plinths, hands pointing down at him in judgement.

Instead, as Aziraphale nears the cemetery gate, he thinks about what Crowley would say. _“Something you’d expect my lot to do.”_ Aziraphale would make a dutiful show of being startled, hand over his heart, to hide his delight. He’d forgive any overdramatic entrance, if it would only mean that they could speak again.

For the remainder of the walk home, Aziraphale tries to picture Crowley’s eyes, as warm and vibrant as flickering flames. Rather that, than the sight of cold, unmoving (unfeeling) angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doctor who said "weeping angels :)" and i said "thanks for the new lifelong fear" lol


	4. Vampires (1967)

Crowley is out of the Bentley in an instant, as soon as he (finally, finally) sees it: a muted glow of light filtering through a gap in the bookshop’s curtains. He nears the threshold, and almost forgets to knock. It ends up a belated, clumsy sound, an anxious rap of the knuckles.

And there is Aziraphale, standing in the centre of the room. Above him, a stream of light is already fading into nothingness.

“Good evening, Crowley,” he says mildly. He dusts off his clothes unnecessarily, without looking up.

 _It’s well past midnight,_ Crowley thinks, gut churning. _You’ve been up There for weeks and weeks, and that never happens, not without warning, not without you telling me first._

“Where were you?” he says, voice hoarse. He asks it even though it’s obvious, because sometimes they need that to start with, simple answers to simple questions.

“You know where.” Aziraphale looks up, and suddenly nothing seems simple at all.

_Oh, God, he’s so pale._

If he didn’t already know better, Crowley would be convinced of it; that Aziraphale has been drained just by the act of handing over Holy Water, like a slow, creeping loss of blood. But, no. Not quite. He knows the light of Heaven, how it can pinpoint all your strengths, every good thing, and bleach it out of you.

“It was just some paperwork,” Aziraphale says. “Ran into a bit of overtime. You know how they are.”

 _No,_ Crowley thinks desperately, _no, I don’t. Because you hint and hint, then dodge it all and complain about paperwork, and that’s not really saying anything at all, is it?_

“What about?” he says, very quietly.

Aziraphale sighs. He walks across the room, his gait uncharacteristically slow, and leans against his desk. “They wanted to know why I needed Holy Water,” he replies.

Crowley almost blocks it out, focusing instead on how Aziraphale must truly be exhausted, to no longer avoid the conversation. And then, it hits him, in a wave of guilt and shame. He feels sick.

Something must show on his face, because Aziraphale says, “Crowley,” rather sharply.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Crowley breathes. “I didn’t…” ( _Didn’t think, did you?_ says a familiar, nasty voice in his head. _You never do_ ). “Angel, I didn’t know they’d—”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale says, but he’s softened into something like patience, something far kinder than Crowley deserves. He stares at Crowley for a minute, like he’s searching for something. “Crowley, listen to me. We’re going to talk about this once, and let that be the end of it. Right. Is it safely hidden away?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll only use it in the… conditions you’ve already mentioned?”

“I swear.”

Aziraphale nods, and he still looks very tired, and very old, but also somehow reassured. “Then I don’t regret it.”

“Let me—” Crowley flounders, but he needs to make himself useful, has to say something—

 _I love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb_.

“D’you want something to eat?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, do you know, the one thing I kept craving…” He stifles a yawn, and Crowley’s chest tightens. “…was fish and chips. Would you mind—? Only if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Yeah,” Crowley gets out, only just avoiding his voice breaking. “’Course, I can manage that. You just… settle in, I won’t be long.”

As he heads to the chippy, Crowley knows he’s only delaying the problem, putting a flimsy plaster over a still bleeding wound.

That’s the trouble with vampires. You have to invite them in. And, the scariest thing, over anything in the universe, is the thought that Aziraphale will never turn Heaven away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _‘I love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb,’_ is a quote from _Dracula_ , in a letter from Mina to Lucy.


	5. Witches (2019)

> _‘It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially.’ –E.M. Forster, Howards End_

“I don’t like it,” Crowley says, for perhaps the third time.

Aziraphale sighs. “I know.” He lies down next to Crowley, and sets the scrap of paper on the bedside cabinet. They’ve dwelled on it enough for tonight; and if _he’s_ feeling exhausted, he’s certain Crowley is doubly so.

“I’m just—” Crowley grimaces. “I’m worried it’s a trap. Y’know like, like…” He clicks his fingers in frustration—not a miracle, but searching for a word. “The… witches? In Macbeth. …Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Aziraphale can’t quite follow the train of thought. He gently nudges Crowley’s ankle with his toe, and hopes to offer some levity: “You pick an odd time for Shakespearean analysis.”

But, Crowley doesn’t laugh. The night suddenly seems colder. Heavier.

There’s a little gap in Crowley’s curtains. From outside, the light of blue sirens bleeds through, casting the room in a brief ghostly glow. Aziraphale can just make out Crowley closing his eyes, his mouth trembling. His chest rises with erratic, uneven breaths.

“Angel,” he whispers. The word splinters. “I’m… scared.”

A pause. When Crowley speaks again, it’s clear that it’s with an enforced calmness. Something numb. “I’m scared it’s a trap. And, if it is, you wouldn’t tell me that, would you?” A grim, shaky smile. “I _know_ you, you’d—” His voice breaks, then takes on that brittle, strained quality of someone fighting tears. “You’d figure out some way to s-save me and… and they’d take you. And the—the worst thing is—”

He inhales, breathing shallow, staring up at the ceiling. Tears are seeping onto the pillow. Aziraphale feels frozen at the sight.

“—you’d do it all with a smile. I-I’m scared if—in the morning, you’ll walk out the door, and I’ll—” Crowley’s face twists in grief, and he turns into the pillow, half-hiding his face. “And I’ll never see—” His voice fails completely as he cries in earnest. Anguished, awful sounds.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. He reaches for him, holds him close. He can feel every tremor, every ragged breath against his neck. He can’t bear it. “Oh, Crowley. _No_. Shh, shh.”

Aziraphale knows he can’t denounce it, not completely. He’s thought of similar things, in scary snatches across the years, when he was sure they’d been found out. It had felt like planning an exit strategy while the flames were already licking around his heels.

But, now…

_You can’t do that to him._

“It isn’t like that,” Aziraphale says. His lips brush against Crowley’s forehead. He kisses the skin. A vow. “I swear, it isn’t. I won’t let it be.”

He feels Crowley shake his head. “ _Please_ ,” he whispers. It sounds like a prayer. “Please, don’t die.”

Aziraphale swallows, abruptly unable to speak. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so mortal, or so scared, or so deeply in love. “Shh. Listen. I’ll come back,” he says, voice choked. “Oh, my dear. I’ll come back to you.”


	6. Costumes (1941)

Still frozen in place, clutching the bag of books, Aziraphale can feel the moment; how it hangs in the air, brimming with newfound hope. He worries that it’s too fragile a thing. The spell might break, like a spider’s web being torn, and Crowley will vanish into darkness like an apparition.

But then, Crowley turns around, and smiles at him, and Aziraphale knows he’s a fool for ever having doubted. Of course this won’t break. If anything, the love he feels soars, and it feels like wings beating in a frantic rhythm against his breastbone.

Crowley tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose. “I like your outfit,” he says. “Suits you.”

Sheer joy propels Aziraphale forward to walk by Crowley’s side. “Well, that _is_ high praise, coming from you,” he says. “You look like you’ve wandered off a film set.”

Crowley laughs loudly, delighted. Hearing that sound, Aziraphale suddenly struggles to believe that there is a war happening all around them.

“Oh, do you like it?” Crowley says. He cuts in front of Aziraphale, hands in his trouser pockets, and does a little twirl amongst the rubble.

Aziraphale’s heart aches with a fondness that has been distant for too long. “Yes, yes,” he chuckles. “Very swish.”

Crowley grins. He raises his voice into something all treble and clipped, an impeccable Transatlantic accent. He sounds straight from the pictures: “Do you really think so, angel?”

He stumbles slightly on the last word, his ankle threatening to roll beneath him. Aziraphale quietly offers an arm—theatrics can’t fool him, he knows Crowley’s feet must still be sore.

“Now,” Aziraphale says. “I believe you mentioned something about a lift home?”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says. As he takes Aziraphale’s arm, he leans in briefly, like it’s a secret. “I’ve got to introduce you to a _terrific_ car. Quick trip, mind, I’m not chancing another run-in with those bombs.”

It turns out _quick_ is very much the operative word.

In what feels like a blink, they are parked right in front of the bookshop. The Bentley’s engine quietens, then dies, turning the silence that has fallen between them even more oppressive. There, again—Aziraphale feels the moment threatening to crack with the strain, from above and below. He draws the bag of books closer to his chest, as if by that action alone he can claw it all back, somehow freeze time.

“So.” Crowley looks straight ahead. “How do those films go, in the end? Is it a… separate ways sort of thing?”

“I’m…” Aziraphale clears his throat. He still feels a little breathless, perhaps from the drive. “I’m not sure. I think it rather depends on the film.”

Crowley tilts his head in acknowledgement, like he’s heard an answer he wishes he hadn’t, but accepts it all the same. Aziraphale can picture how it will end: Crowley politely opening the car door for him, and driving off into the night.

Aziraphale slowly lowers the bag to the floor. He can see, just in the periphery of his vision, Crowley go still.

“Actually,” Aziraphale says. “I think I know what happens.” He moves forward, and takes the keys out of the ignition, cherishing how their hands touch again. “I think they stay,” he murmurs. Above them, the air raid siren stops. An all-clear. “For… for as long as they’re able.”

Crowley’s smile is crooked, half-caught in wonder. He nods. “Alright,” he says. He opens the door.


	7. Bonfire (2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cw: brief non-graphic eye injury)

Crowley remembers how the grass had crunched with frost underfoot, as Aziraphale guided him towards the display. For a little while, it was intoxicating, to be swept along with the crowd, to believe in the illusion of anonymity. Aziraphale had looked at him, that precious spark in his eyes. A whisper: “Let’s go to the front.”

For a demon, Crowley knows he has always been too easy to tempt.

The fierceness of the heat had stung their faces—normal, human discomfort, nothing infernal, but Crowley still felt a prickle of unease. He couldn’t find the words, didn’t know how to say, “Be careful. Don’t get too close.”

The wind changed. A breath too late, Crowley sensed it, the embers being swept towards them, and Aziraphale winced with a little gasp of pain, a hand flying up to his eye.

_This is what happens when you’re too slow._

Crowley had pulled him back, away from the blaze, away from the crowd. “It’s alright,” he told Aziraphale quickly. “Just keep blinking, that’s it.” He pushed the panic down: _idiot, you’re a demon, you’re made of fire. If you’re good for anything, it’s this. Fix it._

He reached out with his fingertips, and gently brushed Aziraphale’s eyelid, until the universe was righted; convinced that the ember had never dared touch an angel to begin with.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed in relief. He was still blinking up at Crowley. The only evidence of what had been was a stray tear, clinging to his lashes—just a reflex, but it made something in Crowley’s chest pang all the same.

“Don’t mention it,” he had cut in, before the _thank you_ was even voiced. He ignored how his fingers still twitched, itching to brush the tear away. He contented himself with the reminder that he could heal. That he didn’t just burn.

As he steps into Hellfire, Crowley thinks about it. He wonders if his uneasiness around fire has been some kind of premonition all along, sensing Heaven’s betrayal. 

The flames lick up his arms. He feels something deep within him hiss in satisfaction, _“See? You can’t have him.”_

He looks at the three little figures standing back from the flames, waiting for their sick spectacle: an angel burning.

 _Well, then,_ Crowley thinks. He coaxes the flames into his mouth. Time to break character, just a little. They’re not getting a silent effigy. _Best put on a show._


	8. Ouija (1975)

The planchette swings across the board, their fingertips brushing. Aziraphale bites his lip to stop himself laughing; Crowley’s miracle controlling the game’s movements is charmingly obvious.

“Sssee? _Spooky_ ,” Crowley says, very giggly, and very drunk. “Angel, m’afraid your bookshop is increl…increb— _ssso_ haunted.”

“Hmm, I suppose it must be,” Aziraphale indulges him. He neglects to point out that the only information they have gleaned from this ghost consists of poorly spelt, increasingly outlandish swear words.

Crowley moves one hand away from the board to take a clumsy sip from his wineglass. Aziraphale feels the miracle break in the air, and fade away. When Crowley’s hand returns, he doesn’t start it up again. Instead, they are left to resume the game as humans do.

“We asked everythin’ right? All the important stuff. You moved on, mate?” Crowley addresses the empty space. “Must’ve buggered off now, bored to death—oh, sorry.”

Aziraphale finds that, rather than the planchette’s now miniscule movements, he is much more focussed on the warmth of Crowley’s fingers, nestled against his own.

There’s a long silence. Usually Aziraphale wouldn’t find it uncomfortable. But, he can still see the frown lines on Crowley’s face behind the laughter. And, without conversation, he is forced to admit it to himself: how he has felt the evening threaten to tip from light-hearted to melancholy a few times, wavering between the two; like swinging back and forth between opposing ends of the alphabet.

It’s a pity he can’t ask the board the important questions. _I thought, after the Holy Water, it would have meant less nights like this—what are you avoiding, coming here?_

The wine hasn’t loosened his tongue enough to ask.

The planchette moves a touch more decisively. As it drifts towards the etched _hello_ on the wood, he hears Crowley let out a little gasp through his teeth. He really must have had too much to drink, to be unnerved by this.

“It’s not real,” Aziraphale hastens to explain. Perhaps he’s also veering on the wrong side of tipsy, when he’s telling Crowley things he must already know. “It’s a reflex. It’s… a subconscious thing, you know. Getting the answer you must have wanted, without knowing it.”

Crowley’s hand jerks, and the planchette is moved roughly to _Goodbye_ instead. Crowley gets to his feet, a little unsteadily.

“’Spose that’s what you get, for asking questions,” Crowley says, too brightly. “Think I’ll call it a night, angel.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, because he doesn’t want to row, and he really is too drunk, too much of a coward to face an answer to _what aren’t you telling me?_ “Mind how you—”

The shop door rattles closed.


	9. Possession (41 A.D.)

Aziraphale closes his eyes, savouring the last few rays of the sun. “I wish it could be like this forever,” he sighs. He hadn’t planned on saying it at all, but he finds he _does_ mean it. Oh, he means it very much.

He feels Crowley gently bump his shoulder. “What?” Crowley drawls, the sound rounded with laughter. “Drinking wine? Eating oysters?”

Aziraphale leans closer. He basks in the new warmth of Crowley next to him, the softness of Crowley’s toga. The wine is making him languid. Almost sleepy, really. He wonders if it really would be such a sin to rest against Crowley’s shoulder.

“No,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Just…” He opens his eyes, straightens a little.

He can’t say it. He knows he can’t. Even if it wouldn’t tarnish the whole day, he doesn’t think he’d be able to find the words.

_Isn’t it nice, to live like we’re not possessed by fear? Can’t it be like this always?_

“We weren’t working today,” Aziraphale settles on, inadequately. “It was nice.”

Crowley’s answering smile looks like he’s heard far more than those meagre words. He taps his own forearm, just once, the tiniest motion. Aziraphale finds the invitation in it, and settles against his side once more.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, softly, as if he thinks Aziraphale is already asleep. “Think I know what you mean.”


	10. Legends (1020)

Crowley is pushing his luck, he knows he is, but he can’t help it: the Arrangement is just hours old, their one celebratory drink turning into two, then three, then…

“D’you ever think about it?” he asks, nodding vaguely towards groups of people within the tavern. “’Bout what we look like, to them?”

But, before Aziraphale can even attempt to answer, Crowley forges ahead: “Mind, I’m not talkin’ ‘bout… y’know.” He points at himself, just avoiding poking the lenses of his glasses. And then, he gestures at Aziraphale, miming a sketchy halo.

Aziraphale laughs. “My dear, I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re on about.”

Something in Crowley’s heart sings: _my dear, my dear my dear._

He wishes he could make himself clear. He’s not thinking about the Beginning or Eden or all that rot. It’s just… sometimes he likes to think that there’s reminders of them, throughout history. Nothing big, only… he imagines a little ripple effect, across the centuries, where perhaps they’re just in the background, passers-by in someone’s day, but if it happens often enough, maybe… maybe enough humans will instinctively think _Oh, those two? They’re a pair._

The problem is Crowley doesn’t know how to say all of that. But, it turns out, he must say _something_ , because Aziraphale is suddenly speaking. “Shh, alright, alright—yes, I see, now.”

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale smiles at him—slowly, like a secret.

“ _Yes,”_ Aziraphale repeats, very deliberately. And, suddenly, it feels like they are celebrating something far greater than the Arrangement.


	11. Haunt (2019)

Crowley sinks into the memory with a hurried desperation, letting it flood his veins: Aziraphale scrutinising the pub with a put-on air of dubiousness.

Was it the ’70s? No, keep going, it doesn’t matter—

“So, this is your new haunt,” Aziraphale had said, arched eyebrow and all.

Crowley shrugged. “S’good for people watching.” It was only partly the truth—his flat sometimes felt too empty, too quiet, especially whenever Aziraphale was Upstairs for a spell.

“Well, I shall take your word for it.” Aziraphale sipped tentatively at his drink, and immediately grimaced.

Crowley snorted. “ _Told_ you. Knew you wouldn’t like the gin.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were delightfully pink. He laughed through his words: “How could you possibly _know_ …”

No. No, that’s not quite right. What…what did the laugh _sound_ like? Was it a little hidden thing or was it unashamedly loud? This is important, this is the most important thing he’ll ever…

_Come back._

But, the moment goes, like a veil being torn.

“Can’t remember,” Crowley mumbles around his glass. “I’m…sorry, angel, I—I can’t…”

The world is ending, and Crowley sits in the pub alone, throat burning with tears.


	12. Magic (3004 B.C.)

A child is crying. Aziraphale closes his eyes, steps further back into the shadows. Self-loathing lingers, a threatening nausea coating the roof of his mouth. He can’t help. Can’t look. If he sees nothing, does nothing, then nothing has happened, no-one needs to know—

There’s the creak of wood. Heavier footsteps. A voice.

“Hey. You alright?”

Crawly’s voice.

Aziraphale’s eyes open.

Crawly’s outline is just visible. He somehow perfectly keeps his balance even as the ark rocks wildly, and he crouches down to the child’s eye-level.

“I know,” he says. His voice is hushed and gentle. “Bit scary, yeah?” He reaches out with his hand, but remains a little distance away. “D’you want to come with me?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes once more. He hears the child’s voice, the words lost to the roar of the storm, and Crawly whisper, “Alright, c’mon. You want up? That’s it, there you go.” Footsteps, fading away.

_You shall not interfere._

Aziraphale steps out from the dark. When he rounds the corner, he doesn’t know—doesn’t _want_ to know— how to feel at the sight. What does it say, that a demon has created a sanctuary where he couldn’t?

In an inexplicably warm, hidden part of the ark, a group of children are safe—some sleeping, some watching… Aziraphale turns. They’re watching little shadows, dancing across the wood around them, a backdrop to an inexplicable golden glow: silhouettes of birds, and other animals, passing clouds…

Crawly sits nearby, watching over them. His hand rises and falls in time to the shadows’ movements. He startles when Aziraphale sits down beside him, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely.

_You shall not interfere._

It’s not interfering if the deed’s already been done.

Aziraphale gestures towards Crawly’s hand. He clears his throat quietly. “Can you show me? How to…” _Show me what’s right._

Crawly nods. He guides Aziraphale’s hand with his own, until twin pairs of shadows are drifting across the ship.

 _A demon’s magic is not like ours,_ Heaven constantly intones. _The source is always infernal, the outcome always evil._

And yet, Aziraphale can only call this a miracle.

Crawly’s hand falls, and he sighs, swaying closer and closer towards Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m… jus’so tired, angel,” he murmurs. Aziraphale can tell he isn’t just talking about a need for sleep.

But, when Crawly’s head eventually comes to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale finds himself doing the impossible: for the very first time, gifting a miracle to a demon: _Sleep, and be at peace. Sleep, and know you are safe. Sleep, and…_

It’s not out loud. No-one will hear.

_Sleep, and know you are loved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday! I hope you have a lovely weekend and you're being kind to yourself <3


	13. Ritual (2001)

Aziraphale knows he doesn’t _need_ to lock up the bookshop by hand. One simple miracle, and it will be closed to everyone (almost everyone). But, the pattern to it—shutting the windows, drawing the curtains, key turning in the lock—has become familiar and comforting. It makes it feel more like a home, he thinks. Something permanent. Something that doesn’t hold the threat of being torn from him at any moment, without warning.

He’s almost finished the whole locking rigmarole, ready to put down the last set of blinds, when he sees the Bentley, parked outside. It’s empty.

Aziraphale stops. Unlocks the front door.

When he gets to the Bentley, he gently taps the roof. His fingers linger on the cold surface, and he breathes through the sudden flicker of fear. There’s something in the air, has been for a good while now.

_Something’s coming._

Aziraphale quells the thought. Under his breath, he says, “We have time,” and, in the next moment, pretends he doesn’t know what he’s referring to.

“So, my dear,” he murmurs to the Bentley. “Where is he?”

The headlights glow, the light briefly travelling upwards…

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “He is quite something, isn’t he?”

*

The night sky is so phenomenally clear that Aziraphale suspects demonic intervention may have played a part in it. Crowley sits, perched on the bookshop roof, looking up as if he’s basking in the light of the full moon. His feet dangle over the edge. When he glances behind, smiling, Aziraphale thinks, inexplicably: _you look so young_.

“Oh, boring,” Crowley teases. “You took the stairs.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I’m not making a spectacle of myself, thank you.”

Crowley snorts. “You make it sound like I climbed the drainpipe or something.” The air shimmers a little, a faint silhouette of Crowley’s wings coming into view. “Anything can happen on Halloween, angel. No-one will see.”

Aziraphale sits down beside him, lets their knees brush against one another. “Forgive me if I remain a tad sceptical.”

“Well.” Crowley shrugs, still smiling. “If anyone does, they’ll just think it’s a very good costume.” He does a double take, laughs, and points down at the street. “Oh, _hello_.”

Aziraphale follows his hand. He has a bird’s eye view of a very wonky pair of halos, what looks like golden tinsel shining in the moonlight, as a group of people weave down the street.

Aziraphale looks back in time to see Crowley’s smile fall, just a little. _Are you thinking the same thing? Don’t they look so small?_

“Thought I’d…” Crowley sighs. “Well, y’know. Full moon. Halloween. Not going to happen for a…”

He trails off.

_More time. Please, give us more time._

Aziraphale reaches across, and takes Crowley’s hand.

“You’re freezing,” Aziraphale whispers, excusing away his need to touch. They could kiss, here and now, Aziraphale knows. They could excuse that, too. But, it hurts his heart, to think of it as being such a rare thing, to be brushed aside in the light of day.

Crowley’s hand is unnaturally still. He’s shaking, near imperceptibly. The moon keeps shining. Aziraphale holds on tighter. _Something’s coming_.

They’ll face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! <3 I just love, love, love writing moments for these two. thank you to @racketghost for these beautifully evocative prompts. Taking time out of my day to relax and write these just for the sheer joy of it has been so lovely, I expect I'll be back very soon! <3 thanks again, and hope you're having a lovely weekend. Stay (soft)ly spooky, and take care!


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